Maladroit Youth

I have no need to search
a doubting memory -
the rhythms of youth
yet remain, pulsing through me
spontaneous and acute as
action and reaction remain
intact. My mind follows suit
and language and recall
firmly lodged within a
productive mind limned with
humour. Before me stands the
genuine article, so young there
is yet down on his cheeks; an illusion.
He towers over me, blisteringly
vital, vanishingly slender,
a tall groomed puff of platinum
curls coiffed on his skull, 
gold loop glinting from an earlobe.
Suddenly my youth is challenged
by a quality refused entry by
my adamant younger self.
Even as he blithely assures me
that eight years is a long time
and much can happen as time
races me toward the
chronology of my mother's end.